The petits fours of the bourgeoisie

I'm posting on Open Salon a lot, and today's post was one of my typically oblique free-associations that nobody likes but me.

Yuppies know their comforts often come at the expense of others. Those fantastic strawberries at your dinner party, organic though they may be, were raised and picked through an immigrant's back-breaking labor. My comfortable brand-name sneakers protect my middle-aged joints, at the expense of the blighted lives of the Chinese factory workers who made them. Und so weiter. This is what it means to be an affluent first-worlder in a top-heavy global economy. One's pleasures are another's pain; in fact, the pain of not just one other, but a thousand.